


Pale and Pitiful

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck, InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: I love crackships okay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grand Higblood sits on his throne as a nearly all white beast is brought to him. It is neither lusus, nor like any other barkbeast he has ever seen. The alien creature is far more pitiful than any creature he has seen in many sweeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pale and Pitiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattenprinsen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattenprinsen/gifts).



> I have no regrets for my crackshipping.

They bring the lusus-beast to you, bound in chains. He growls with a sound like rumbling thunder and he is larger than any barkbeast you have ever seen in your life- and you have lived for countless sweeps. It towers over you, eyes as red as that long past mutant blood and glowing violently. A chain is looped tightly around its neck, an iron muzzle keeps that fanged mouth shut. You can see slobber, dripping down and off white, maybe even a little green or yellow, dripping down from between enormous incisors. Right in the center of its forehead is a blue crescent moon, unlike any mark on a lusus or beast you've seen before. This creature, whatever it is, is very unusual.

They drag it in, half a dozen trolls on either side, even a mental, animal communicator mudblood trying to subdue it. Its claws drag across the ground, digging gauges into the floor of your cathedral. It snarls. It swipes at a troll, cuts it open, spills dark purple-blue blood and guts on the floor but loses its footing, slightly. The trolls lurch, pull, tug, drag the beast up to your throne.

You rest your chin on the back of your hand, leering at this beast. The largest damn barkbeast you’ve ever even _heard_ of. They drag it to the foot of the dais and stop. Remarkably, the creature stops as well. It stands on shaking legs. You can see injuries riddling its fur, a dark red on white. A lowblood with a lusus so enormous, how insane and illogical.

“This was the motherfucking beast that was out tearing apart all those motherfuckers?”

The ears of the beast flick as if listening. The eyes narrow. You slowly rise from your throne and take a step towards it. It growls, deep and rumbling as you step closer. You raise one hand and place your palm on its nose. “Now why would a grand motherfucker of your size be hunting out trolls when you can just as easily pull a hoofbeast into your motherfucking maw?”

The intelligence you see in the eyesof this creature is beyond any barkbeast, beyond any lusus, any four legged creature to ever be dragged into your hive. It closes its mouth.

“Unbind it.”

“Sir?”

You don’t know who said it, but you have your club out in a moment and you whirl around and smash in the brains of the nearest troll. “DON’T FUCKING QUESTION ME. TAKE THE CHAINS OFF OF THIS MOTHERFUCKER RIGHT NOW.”

The beast bows its head, eyes sliding half shut as it lets the chains be pulled from its white form. You spin your club and lean it on your shoulder. The beast opens its red eyes once more, watching you, studying you. One ear is tilted towards you while the other is flicking around the room, ever listening. You raise your hand again, scratching up its muzzle. Your claws dig into the fur, it snorts, eyes you but is otherwise silent.

“Leave.”

The word is barely spoken but the movement that follows is punctual. Soon the cathedral is empty, the last door shut. The beast doesn’t even relax. You step closer, running your fingers up the middle of its face. It lifts its muzzle, growls and motherfucking _speaks._ “Get your hands off of me, you reek.”

Your claws spasm, to dig into the white fur and flesh beneath but the head is pulled back before you can. “What are you,” the demand rolls from your tongue, “for you are no lusus forgotten or barkbeast overgrown.”

The beast looks at you, eyes calculating, and then it shudders- violently. Before your very eyes the beast shrinks, wavers, glows and then finally, the transformation subsides. In moments before you kneels this white creature, so much smaller than the beast, crouched down on two legs with long, straight white-silver hair and white-silver skin riddled with dark cuts. He, and it was very much a he, was foreign, but not just that, he was completely alien.

He stood, showing his body to you. His long hair moves around him in waves, rivulets of star-silver strands. His body was so strange. Swooping colored marks on his hips, his wrists, his cheeks- bands of dark red showing his colors but still there was the blue half circle on his forehead. There were no vestigial marks in the middle of his ribs for where his grub legs should have been. There were slightly darker discs on his upper chest, a strange dip in his lower abdomen, and then what in the ever loving motherfuck was that hanging off of him. His _bulge_?

He cracks his spine, his shoulders, flexing his limbs out and yawning in a crack that made even your jaw hurt. He scratches his neck and comes stepping towards you. His eyes are no longer all red, but white with golden irises and cold, cold depths. “I am Sesshomaru, Demon Lord of the Western Lands.” He stopped, glanced around and then, his soft looking upper lip pulling back to show a flash of fang. “Though that is no longer where I am.”

He lifted his chin at you, pride etched in every hard line of his body and high birth in all the soft curves. And he does have those; on his hip, on the slope of his cheek, in the falling of his hair. You look at him and you pity his pale, bleached form. You look at him and you desire nothing more than to curl him to your chest, slide your fingers through his hair and drag your claws through it.

You lift up your hand and gesture for him to ascend the dais. He moves utterly silently, his alien feet whisper soft on the floor as he steps up before you. You can see the pulse in his throat. He stares at you with golden eyes of an adolescent but on his face they are more assured than any wriggler’s could be. On his face, the eyes are only one more mutation in a string of them that he has and they suit him.

“Oh how I pity you,” you growl softly, brushing your knuckles down his throat. He flinches from your words but doesn’t speak before he thinks. Your claws drag down his fragile skin but when you break the skin and red lines of mutant candy blood bead on the wounds rise he doesn’t flinch. He only growls, lifts his hand and his own white claws on pale skin scratch down your neck. The prickle of pain and pleasure roll together as one and you shiver. His golden eyes move over your face and you wonder, fleetingly, what this alien sees in your face, in the paint, the blood, the long shaggy hair, and your indigo eyes.

A smirk tilts those lips of his up and he _purrs_ in the most silken voice you have ever heard, “Pity me? Go right ahead. I can see the power you wield in this land, where I have nothing but the strength of my body.”

“Your body is a motherfucking miracle that contains so much more than strength, Sesshomaru.” His name slides out of your mouth and makes you flash your fangs. He flicks a smirk at you and leans into your claws. You spill more of his candy red blood and he puts his arm around your neck, fingers sliding through your hair as he lifts himself up for a kiss.

You bite his lower lip, spill more of his rich coppery blood and push your tongue into his mouth. His fangs are not quite as sharp as yours. You rub the slick muscle roughly through his mouth, exploring the strange shapes of his teeth, the hard palate in his mouth and his soft, warm tongue. He was as warm as a lowblood was, his heart pulsing quickly under your finger and claw tips. You break the kiss, licking his blood over your lips and you growl, “You are mine, your body, your blood, your life.” Your hand is around his neck, waiting for that moment of resistance.

His eyes glow in the dim light as he replies with that purring growl, ignoring the blood on his lips and teeth, “If you can handle me.”

You laugh, the rich sound feeling good coming from your throat as you pick him up around his thin little pale waist and you lift him up.

It is only a few steps that bring you back to the wide seat of your throne. The indigo cushion has long since been stained darker with blood and drink, and tonight you plan to coat it in yourself. You sit and the pale Sesshomaru slides right onto your lap. He nips at your lips, drawing your own cool indigo blood.

He looks at your mouth, laps at the blood and then touches the bite with his fingers. He draws his hand away, looking at your dark blood on his pale skin. His mouth is already red and indigo. The skin of his face where it brushes yours is becoming grey and white from the face paint you wear. He licks your blood from his fingers and then looks down your body.

His face is surprisingly inscrutable. His hands follow his gaze down your body. They pull your shirt free of where it is tucked into your pants and then pull the cloth up. His palms are calloused- you wonder what from. He slides his hands up, fingertips pausing to feel the ridge along your ribs from your grubhood, then his fingers move up, searching. You feel a thrill shiver down your spine and coil in your gut. You are as foreign to him as he is to you.

Your shirt comes off, gets dropped to the floor. It has been so long since you pitied anyone enough, since you had anyone deserving of your pity. For sweeps you have had a strong seadwelling kismesis, and just as often as you triumphed and pinned her down and had your way, she had hers. You had almost forgotten that softness prickled with clawpoints of pain, nips and scrapes that came with the weaker, but no less important intimacy of a matesprit.

You chuckle, realizing he probably has no idea what part in your life he has slid into. You will have to teach him so much for him to understand. You think he will have such stories to tell you as well. But both of these things can wait.

He slides his fingers down your sides, to your pants, his fingers running over the bone belt you wear. He taps a claw on it and flicks his gaze up at you. Then he works the belt open, and then your pants.

You let him undress you, touch you, as you slide your fingers through the hair behind his head, behind his neck. You draw your hand across his back, his shoulder, feeling how his muscles move under his skin. There is so much difference on you two, on the surface, you wonder how he looks underneath the skin. Do your joints, muscles, bones,do they look the same or are they different as well?

When he dies of old age, the lowblood that he is, you will discover for yourself. His bones, his blood, his shining fur/hair will be your prized possession.

You lift your hips, shift when he needs you to in order to remove your pants. They get looped around your ankles until you kick off one boot and then the other and finally the last scraps of cloth are removed. He seems as surprised in your anatomy as you are in his. His fingers trail lightly over the sheath of your bone bulge and you finally slide your hand down his side. You run a questioning hand over his thigh, the junction of hip and leg and finally over his bulge, semi-hard in your hands. Your touch is soft, because you do not want to damage him, and he gives you a wry look, a quick twist of the lips that could be a smirk or a smile or something else, and moves his fingers down further.

The heel of his hand rubs against your sheath, pressing against the opening, and you feel the urge of your bulge to push out and you let it. His fingertips with those prickling claws are at the edge of your nook, questing, figuring, curious.

When you slide your hand down his dangling bulge, past his shame globes, larger than your own, you aren’t surprised when he arches up, just a little, gives you more room. He has no nook, which surprises you, just a waste chute and a bulge. It is then your suspicions are confirmed. “You’re a mammal.”

He quirks an eyebrow at you and replies with, “And you are not.”

A wide smile spreads across your features, you cannot help it. You are going to pail a mammal man-figure. This pale mutant mammal alien creature, so pitiful, so strong, so beautiful and utterly at your mercy; you are going to use him as your pail, fill him and own him and then let him later discover the connotations of your actions.

You chuckle, drag him in for a kiss as his fingers slide up. He makes a strange noise when his palm touches your wet, probing bulge. He jerks his head back, looks down and licks his lips. The look in his eyes is one of hunger- but of a more carnal sort.

He flicks you a smirk and then pulls back. He murmurs, “With the sharp teeth of your kind, I’d bet you’ve never had a mouth on that.” He points to your bulge.

You laugh at him, “Motherfucking right.”

He slides right off your knees then and you involuntarily shiver at the loss of his body heat. He kneels before you, between your legs, and slides hands up your thighs. Your toes curl as you realize exactly what he intends to do, licking his lips and coaxing your bulge out farther with his fingers. He glances up and purrs, “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

With whom? You wonder. And how often, to be so confident. And then you stop thinking because he has wrapped the top portion of your bulge around his fingers and is licking up from the base. The surge of blood and returned surge of sensation makes you gasp. You dig your fingers into the silver hair at his shoulder with one hand and the other digs into the wooden arm of your throne. He licks and doesn’t stop licking and you briefly, between touches, remember he was in the form of a barkbeast so of course he’d be so motherfucking good at licking, and then your mind is gone again because he is motherfucking good with his mouth in general.

You try to watch him, when your eyes don’t shut in pleasure, and he soon gets your bulge into his mouth. It moves on its own inside, curling around his tongue, rubbing against his teeth and the sensation is wonderful. You swallow dryly, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he works your bulge in deeper, sucking and licking like he was born to do it. Your hips move up on their own and he barely puts any effort in holding you down.

The sensation is different than any nook you’ve ever felt, and thus, better. No nook can suck on you like this, drawing you in so actively or work against your bulge like his tongue. You growl, pant, and arch your hips into his mouth. Just when you think you might be able to half control yourself in this situation, his fingers are between your thighs and knuckles rub at your nook.

He’s smart enough not to use his claws, mirthiful messiahs be praised, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing in his bent finger. As your nook opens for him, genetic fluid pooling out, he _hmmm’s_ around your bulge and you think you groan out his name. That’s when his eyes flick up at you, burning and golden and amused. He pulls his head back, sucking the whole way until your bulge comes out of his mouth with a slick _pop!_ He pants softly, his fingers coiling around the bulge again, gently touching the dripping organ. Purple drips from the corner of his mouth as he murmurs, “How deep does it go?”

“…the motherfuck you asking?”

His knuckles press into your nook, harder, and he growls out, “How _deep_ does it go.”

That’s when you remember his bulge isn’t like yours. It’s hard and thick and not too terribly long you probably could-

Oh.

_Oh._

Motherfucking _yes._

You grin viciously at him and growl, “Deep enough for you.”

That makes him shudder and you can see it as he sucks in a breath, his ribs stick out just a little.

You are going to feed him well while he is with you. No more scrounging for whatever he can in the woods. You will pamper him, feed him, even brush his long silver hair yourself if you have to- just to have that mouth again.

You shift onto your knees on the throne, toes curling as he climbs up after you. His bulge is hard now, erect now, and discolored with his blood. He runs his fingers up your bulge, slicking it with your genetic fluid and then uses that on his own. Not self-lubricating then? Mammals were so strange.

His narrow hips fit easily between your thighs and you brace for the inevitable strangeness of his bulge on your sensitive nook. It is much like his knuckles at first, except hotter and makes you groan. You get sick of his slowness and grab him by the hips. You pull him in, as far as he will go and he slides right into your nook, right up to his hips and he arches in your grip and groans from deep in his chest.

He’s hard and at first its uncomfortable and then he pulls out just a little, pushes, thrusts right back in and _you_ are the one groaning.

His arms are hot irons across your shoulders, claws digging into your skin and making your blood run as he thrusts up into you. He pushes you to lean against the back of the throne, his hips moving hard and driving himself into you fast. You bite his mouth, swallow his sounds and give him your own. You are dripping, positively dripping, indigo all over his pale legs. The sound of his body smacking against yours, the wet noise of his bulge pushing into your nook, fills you with absolute pleasure from the hornbeds on your head to the tips of your clawed toes.

He is shaking worse than you are, growling louder and louder. He groans and pushes into you and then looks at you with this desperate look in his golden eyes and whimpers, “I can’t m-make it.”

Your bloodpusher swells with pity for this creature and you drag him closer, kiss his lips and grind him against your body. He moans, arches, and when you lick along the shell of his ear, he whines. "Fucking come.”

He thrusts into you as he comes, and you feel the heat of his material, but it isn’t as much as you expect so it is not as weird as you thought it would be. In fact it’s kinky as hell and as he pulls out, gasping, you smirk. Buckets were always for drones, anyway. You shall do as you please.

He pants, softly, against your neck and you move your hands to his thighs. You shift the two of you around so he is straddling your thighs once more. Your neglected bulge squirms between you. His hand moves to touch it, wrap it around his fingers. His other hand goes back behind himself.

Shuddering from whatever his other hand is doing, he flicks that burning gaze to your face again and pants, “Would be rude of me to not help you finish.”

You laugh at this motherfucker and lean in, licking at his lips and giving him a short, hard kiss, “Without a nook, how the fuck do you expect to do that?”

He quirks an eyebrow as if to say _so that’s what you call it?_ but only says, “I have something.”

And if he means his waste chute you are going to laugh because mother _fuck_ he is kinkier than you thought. Either that or mammals have a lot more strange qualities to them than you imagine. He lifts himself up onto his knees and moves your bulge, guiding it.

You chuckle, deciding he’s just kinky because it’s better that way, and the moment you feel the tip of your bulge-near stiff from all the blood and genetic fluid in it- near his entrance, you push up with your hips.

His fingers are there to help keep himself open while you get your bulge in past the tight ring. He groans and then sits on you, working your bulge inside. It squirms, moving and searching and feeling out like it always does and then coils inside of him.

You can feel your bulge do all that, and you watch his face the whole time. He’s flushed, just a little. Circles of red color the tops of his cheeks as he bows his head to you, rocks against you.

You wonder, in a creature used to stiff bulges, how your moving one feels.

Strange, different, you imagine. You listen to him moaning, arching against you and you decide, it is anything but bad.

You don’t even have to move your hips as your bulge moves inside because he’s rocking back and forth, moving his hips in circles to encourage your bulge’s movements. You just dig your claws into his back and attack his mouth with your own. He kisses back, biting after you bite, and drags his claws across your shoulders. Then your bulge moves against something in him and he gives this pathetic whine and his body tenses.

You feel a twitch down below and see his strange dangling bulge moving as if wanting to harden again. He moves his hips a certain way against you, again and again, and you watch as he fucks himself on you. The longer he does it, the more his bulge reacts and you finally bring one hand down and stroke him.

He whimpers into your mouth, against your neck as you stroke him, gently at first and then growing firmer until you’re _just_ squeezing it hard enough. Every time your hand moves up and down, he goes from a growl to a purr and back. He’s as vocal as a barkbeast too.

You laugh. He grinds his hips down and then his body clenches around you.

Your laugh is cut off into a garble as that tight squeeze on your bulge tears your orgasm out of you. _Nook’s don’t do that,_ is your only thought as you shout and begin to cum. He moans, and with each gush of genetic fluid it gets louder and louder until he’s leaning back, crying out as you fill him.

As you finally are drained and you still, he looks at you with the strangest half-horrified, half-delirious expression. Your fluids are dripping out of him, past that tight ring and your bulge. He stares at you and you grin at him. You swipe some paint from your own face and draw your symbol with the greyish white paint on his cheek. “Mine,” you whisper.

The horrified look vanishes like it was never there and he just smirks and licks at your chin, nipping his teeth down it gently. “I am.”

And you laugh and laugh as he curls against your chest, claws against your skin and teeth near your throat. You know, just as you have claimed him, he has claimed you, but that need not be said.


End file.
